


a few hours away

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captain John Watson, Epistolary, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Scientist Sherlock Holmes, Strangers to Lovers, but yeah...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: Do you think you can know a man after a single night?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 85





	a few hours away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221BJohnlockIsReal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BJohnlockIsReal/gifts).



> Hey everyone! I wrote this fic for FTH 2020 for frandomize, I know I'm suuuuuper late, but here it is! 
> 
> The fic was based on the prompt that Sherlock and John dance in a pub on Edith Piaf's La vie en rose, which was mostly inspired by this music video, ["La vie en rose by Edith Piaf but you're finally with your love after the war is over"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioilVOfMm5s&ab_channel=l0user). You're welcome to listen to this while reading the fic. :)  
> This is set before the war, and La vie en rose was only recorded after the war -- I hope no one will be too bothered by this anachronism.

_Il est entré dans mon cœur_

_Une part de bonheur_

_Dont je connais la cause_

_C'est toi pour moi, moi pour toi dans la vie_

_Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie_

_\- Edith Piaf, La vie en rose_

_Yet I know as I gaze_

_At my young love beside me_

_The morning is just a few hours away_

_— Simon & Garfunkel, Wednesday Morning 3AM_

****

****

****

**_November 1945_ **

The sight of the ruins obliterates his hopes, like shrapnel digging through the walls he built around himself. A war can be won, but some men never return.

He never was delusional. But for once, he'd let himself hope.

Grave mistake. Caring is not an advantage.

He kicks gravel around before he sits down on broken stones, dust clinging to the back of his trousers. The debris around him is an apt metaphor for his life. Depressing thought. Unhelpful.

He opens his bag and slowly retrieves the vinyl, the recorder. His shoulder still hurts from the strain of carrying it around all evening, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Carefully, he places the vinyl on the record. His fingers hover over the stylus. Maybe he shouldn't let useless sentimentality dig its way into his chest, in the place where his heart had been six years ago. It will not solve anything. It won't bring anyone back to life.

It's a ridiculous thing: he would rather not feel what he feels, yet his actions betray his need to feel pain. Masochism? Perhaps.

Or maybe compromise.

Just for tonight, then — tomorrow, he'll go back to Baker Street, if it's still standing. Reopen his practice, and pretend that these past years have never happened.

Just for tonight.

He lets go of the stylus, and as the first notes draw into the night, he buries his face in his hands and remembers. Remembers when this pub was still a pub, and when there was a light still in John Watson's eyes.

_____________________________

**_Six years prior_ **

**_October 1939_ **

He wasn't aware his life was about to change.

Of course not, because everything about him is constant. A pure mind going through the world, understanding connections at a level most people cannot. The world is a landscape: it does not change Sherlock Holmes. If the first bells of war hadn't, nothing would. Or, perhaps, it would take something bigger than a war.

No, he certainly is not thinking about anything that grand, that life-altering. Only about damn Mycroft with his damn assignments, thinking that his brother is some kind of petty spy to use as convenient. Yet Mycroft seemed intent on having him here, and Mycroft owing him a favor is always a pleasant thought. Not that Sherlock would ever need it, but one never knows.

He drums his fingers on the wooden counter, growing restless. With every passing second, it's more and more evident that his man won't show. He probably found a better offer somewhere else, he thinks with a snort, as his eyes land on a couple in the corner of the room. They are not as discreet as the others, the older, bigger man rasping his beard over the neck of his younger counterpart.

In retrospect, he understands why Mycroft asked. A spy has to hide well, and what better place to hide a tree than in a forest?

He sighs. Of course, the government wouldn't allow employing a man ascribing to the sin of homosexuality, even if it meant saving the war. And even the best of their spies would stand out like a sore thumb, awkward and uncomfortable.

Scratch that — _he_ is their best spy. Too bad the job is just so damn boring.

Sherlock sighs again. Downs the drink in front of him — something without alcohol, something another man bought him two hours ago before Sherlock sent him on his merry way.

The door opens with the twinkle of the bell he has learned to recognize by now, considering he's been here since the dawn of time and his arse is starting to become one with the stool. A few men whistle. Sherlock rolls his eyes, turns his head, and — unsurprisingly — meets the gaze of the soldier standing in the doorway.

He turns his gaze back to the wooden panels in front of him, his forearms on the bar.

Frowns.

Then, looks back again.

*

_November 1939_

_Mycroft stares at him for a very long time. "You are a fool."_

_"It's only a favor, Mycroft, there is no need for such animosity. You owe me one."_

_Mycroft snorts. "For not finding our man?"_

I found another _, he wants to say. It's on the tip of his tongue but he thinks better of it. "I found your messenger outside of the pub. He had been dead for three days at that point, certainly not much I could have done at the time of our supposed meeting. And I found the one responsible. I gave you Malcolm, I gave you your spy. I just need that one favor."_

_Mycroft sighs as he reclines himself on his stupidly huge desk chair. It gives him the air of a king sitting on a throne he built himself to play with. "You are a fool, brother mine," Mycroft repeats. "I did not expect that of you."_

_"Get over it." Fuck off._

_Mycroft jerks his chin up, linking his fingers together over his desk. His gaze is constant, but Sherlock isn't looking. He's fiddling with the rose from a bouquet rising in the middle of Mycroft's bunker, a centerpiece that barely puts a dent in the oppressive atmosphere of the room._

_"You know how many marriages happened in England in the past few months, Sherlock?"_

_He shrugs. "No, but you are about to tell me anyway."_

_"A lot more than usual. People are panicking. There's a war coming, so people are getting married, starting families while barely knowing each other. It's a psychological effect, as they say. Nothing surprising, of course, not for them, but you… You are too self-aware to give in to such stupidity. And for a soldier, none the less."_

_"I don't care about what you think, Mycroft. I am just asking a favor and I'll be out of your way."_

_"It's a world of sheep, but you are not a sheep, brother mine. Why follow the herd in the mouth of the wolf? Caring is not an advantage, even less so when one cares for a soldier. Why? Sherlock, why?"_

_He smirks. Lifts the rose from the bouquet and shows him. "You like flowers." One does, when one lives under the ground._

_Mycroft snorts. "So you're decorating your life with a soldier, now?"_

_He shakes his head, slowly. No, John's the centerpiece of it, he wants to say, but does not. More sentiment will not convince Mycroft._

_"Listen carefully,_ brother mine _," Sherlock sneers instead, eyes on the rose, "and let me show you that I haven't lost my mind. I know you can assure self-passage to a few letters between here and France, and I also know that you owe me a favor. You can put two and two together."_

_Mycroft's eyes are narrow, but whatever he is deducing, he is not saying. "Careful, Sherlock. Never forget what he is, and what you are. You will get stung, and you will bleed."_

_Slowly, Sherlock pushes his thumb over one of the rose's thorns. It pricks him, and from there, a single drop of blood rides down his hand. "Watch me."_

*

****

There's interest. Of course, there's interest, in a place like this, for a blond, blue-eyed soldier with a jawline and arms most of these men can only dream about.

But Sherlock is on a job, and he wouldn't care even if he wasn't. They can have all the soldiers they want; they'll be the ones to cry when they don't come back from war. _Bravery, another word for foolishness_ , Mycroft's voice resonates in his head. Foolishness, most certainly, which allowed Mycroft to send his little brother to Bletchley Park. _You're good at puzzles, brother mine_. Which meant: _let's watch you dance_. And retrieve you, from time to time, to play spy in the big city, while 221b crumbles to dust.

The soldier sits down beside him. "So, who are you waiting for?"

Sherlock frowns. Turns his head, slowly. Everything about the man is written on his face, in the way he carries himself, even on the impersonal uniform he's wearing. He's so evident it shocks him. "Who says I'm waiting for someone?"

"You're sitting alone. If you had just entered you'd be swarmed by every gentleman in attendance hoping to get a single minute of your attention. So you've been sitting here alone, for quite some time, now. Waiting for someone?"

He clears his throat, still frowning, before he turns towards the bar again. "Clearly, he won't show, so."

"Mind if I sit here?"

Sherlock snorts. "What, hoping to get a single minute of my attention, are you?"

The soldier quirks an eyebrow at him and retrieves a small pocket watch that he checks, between his fingers. "Well, it's been two."

He gapes at him.

"John Watson," the soldier offers a hand, which he takes.

"Sherlock Holmes."

*

_November 1939_

_Dear S,_

_You have told me about your brother, and I half-believed you. Not that I think of you as dishonest, far from it. I just did not think such a thing was possible._

_I believe you now._

_This is perhaps the most incongruous thing that ever happened to me. Just as I was finishing my duties for the day, my higher-up (I will stay as vague as possible, again, I am being careful, not doubting your reassurance) fetched me, sat me at a desk (it is barely a desk), and told me to write. To whom?, I asked him. He then handed me your letter and told me that he would deliver mine himself directly in the hands of the government (well, you know what part of the government). I have no reason to distrust him — he seems like a fine man, he was a police officer before moving up in the military, and before you might ask, yes, I believe him to be like you and me._

_I do not know how many details I am allowed to include here. I will not speak about any of our operations, of course, but may I mention the subject of our first meeting without fear of reprisal? Not that I find there is anything to reprise, as you know._

_In any case, I eagerly wait for news on your part. I know that you are safe where you are, but I shall worry nonetheless, in case you choke on a chicken bone or trip on a stone on your morning walk._

_All jokes aside, war is never too far away, not even for you. Please tell me you are doing well._

_Your friend,_

_J. H. W._

*

"So…" John Watson starts, after an awkward silence. "What brings you here, Sherlock?"

He tries not to roll his eyes too much: why are people so keen on filling the silence? With tedious conversations, at that?

"Let's stop with the pleasantries," he says instead. "It might have been two minutes, but two minutes are well enough to know what kind of man you are." The hopeful expression on John's face falls a bit. "A celibate army medic about to be deployed for the first time in the most deadly war of our lives shouldn't have to waste any time."

He stands up — John's face is ashen now — and extends a hand. His plans for tonight have just concretized themselves. He can entertain a soldier for one night before sending him off to war, why not? "Dance?"

John frowns and huffs a laugh at the same time. Most extraordinary.

*

_January 1940_

_Dear S,_

_You find me reassured. I am eternally glad that we get to have this free communication after what happened before my deployment. I know we discussed this before, and I know it was only one night, but — what a night. The thought of your arms in a warm bed is what lulls me at night when the trenches get cold and the bombing doesn't stop. Often enough, my heart beats faster than the artillery. Sorry for the metaphor — I know you abject these, but I find myself unable to give you my sentiments in any other form than raw. Is it wrong to seek poetry in these dire times? I hope not. I search for whatever beauty is left in the world like I sought your lips that night. It keeps me sane. The thought of you keeps me sane. And perhaps the vision of jam and a newspaper in the morning as well. A violin, too. What lovely mornings we could have together if this wretched thing could come to an end._

_Do you think about the future sometimes? It feels very far when I am on the battlefield, yet I still wonder sometimes. Not only about peace, but about people like us. Do you think there will be a time when we will be able to love freely and openly? Will it happen in our lifetime? I doubt it. But perhaps, one day, in the distant future, someone will unearth these letters and the world will be our witness._

_To the future._

_Your friend,_

_J. H. W._

*

The music is slow and not entirely abject, and John Watson's hands in his are not too bad either.

"How do you know, then?" John asks.

"That you are a celibate army medic about to be deployed?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. "Is it not evident?" He waves a hand, to signal John's uniform and the place around them that caters to men of their disposition.

"No, I meant, that it will be the most deadly war of our lives? You don't look twenty," John adds with a smile. "You must have been born before 1914."

Sherlock sucks his lower lip in. He never had a filter and he won't start now, not even in front of a soldier about to be sent to slaughter. "My family is not known for its optimism. Rather unfortunately, we _are_ known for making correct political presumptions."

If John isn't pleased with his words, he doesn't show it. "So, you're saying you're some kind of fortune-teller?" he asks, smiling.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Nothing like that. But I can extrapolate correct predictions based on data."

"Oh, a genius, I see. That's why you're not wearing a uniform, then?"

A pause. Interesting.

"Well," John says, "you're not the only one who can extrapolate correct predictions based on data."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks in a smile. "Yes, this is why."

The music changes, and he can't help but stare into the intricate blue of John's eyes. "I like that song," John says, and Sherlock wants to huff. "I have no clue what it means, though."

Of course — it's sentimental French drivel. _La vie en rose_.

For one night, Sherlock remembers, and presses his body against John's, as their steps make them turn around the room, not unlike the other couples around them. He leans in, and to John's ear, translates the words in a continuous whisper.

_Hold me close and hold me fast_

_This magic spell you cast_

_This is la vie en rose_

It doesn't take much, just for John to turn his head and for their cheeks to brush before their lips meet. It's gentle and slow, and if Sherlock knows a few are looking — not that they are surprised, not here, but rather jealous at seeing the army medic getting snagged in front of them. _Shoo,_ he wants to say, as he deepens the kiss. _This one is mine for tonight._

"Would you like to continue somewhere more private?" he asks, lips caressing the delicate lobe of John's ear.

As a sole answer, John cocks an eyebrow. It's forward, but there is no time to lose. There's only tonight, after all.

*

_March 1941_

_Dear S,_

_I am glad this doesn't seem crazy to you either. The unmarried men in my infantry all seem to be enamored with women they met at the last moment as if clinging to a sense of normalcy they cannot have here. It may be delusional, but I do not think the same applies to us. I am not much of a religious man — not after seeing what is happening here, in any case — but it may have been fate or whatever force there is at work._

_I know you would argue with me and tell me about atoms and particles and how, if we bring down the universe to its essentials, everything deconstructed can be constructed again and understood. The universe could never be so lazy, right?_

_Yet I do not think there is anything you can deduce from this. Beautiful, isn't it?_

_Sorry, again. I will go to sleep, now. This is the rambling of a man who has been up for more than two days, not that you do not know anything about that._

_Stay safe, dear friend. I am never far. I could never be._

_Your friend,_

_J. H. W._

*

They walk, on John's insistence. It's warm for an October night in London, and Sherlock's coat is hanging off his shoulders. They walk in no particular direction, although Sherlock quite hopes this will bring them to a hotel he knows well at some point — not 221b, just in case. Yet, his initial hurry has faded away, as John asks him about his deductions, about his work, about his most interesting cases.

So, Sherlock speaks — shows off, too, sometimes — and John scuffles and laughs and snorts at the right moments. This is not what people usually do, and there is something about John Watson he cannot quite place. As much as John is easy to deduce, him and his quirks, his initial lust transformed into a quieter interest, it is nothing short of a miracle that the man is accepting to spent his last night before the front with him. _That_ — there is nothing to understand. There is not a single soul out on the streets at this hour of the night, and it feels like flying. Like flying, hand-in-hand, above the city, over the thousands of lights still ablaze in family homes, over any concerns about their times.

He never felt like this before, but he also does not feel the need to push it back or negate it. It is what it is.

He is in love with John Watson, and he lets himself be. Just for tonight.

*

_May 1944_

_Dear S,_

_I am bloody tired of all of this. I just want to go home. There is no end — I know there is no end. You were right. And that bloody song was wrong. How can someone write this on the very edge of war? Life is not worth it. Life is not worth the music. The dancing. There is no deconstructing or reconstructing the universe. There is only destruction, and there is nothing to understand about that._

_How long we fight, how much progress we make, how many lives we save and lose, the enemy is better than us. I see death every day, everywhere, and there are so many lives I cannot save. You have told me again and again that I am doing my best, yet my best is not enough. People die here for people not to die there, yet dying is the only thing we seem able to do. It is an inevitability, at this point, an inevitability I have reconciled with. If it happens to me on the field, so be it — just know that I was thinking of you when it happened. I hope it will be quick and without suffering. I do not wish to waste a medic's time, not when he could be helping others._

_This is morbid — pardon me. I am in a mood. It has been five years, can you imagine that? A lot of the boys have lost their gals, or so they say when they come back, yet you still answer my letters as if it was the first. I cannot be thankful enough. Five years of war, and I haven't seen you once since. I know the work at Bletchley is important, more so than us, but for just one second, fuck Mycroft. Fuck him keeping you there. Fuck this war and fuck the Nazis and fuck death. Fuck them all._

_I want to come home._

_Sorry — I've left my pen for a day and I'm not as sour as I was yesterday, yet this is the only paper I have left, and I'm too damn tired to cross it all out. Who cares. I am writing to tell you I shall be closer to home, soon, but not close enough. There is an operation about to happen in the north of France — I cannot say much about it but you probably know anyway — and they are calling for medics. They say it might be what marks an inestimable victory for our camp. I don't know what victory sounds like but I hope it's silent and warm. I am tired of the sound of shrapnel. It does not leave me, not even at night._

_I will go. I hope I will come back._

_Stay safe, dear friend. I will be even closer than before, and you are never far, not when I close my eyes._

_Your friend,_

_J. H. W._

*

John's mouth feels warm on him, lips pressing to his stomach, his hip, his thigh. The room is quiet and dark, and John loves him like a burglar. Whatever he is taking, he intends to keep.

*

_June 1944_

_Mycroft is being thick, and it's not a good moment._

_It's been two weeks since the last letter, and Sherlock knows what happened. He knows what happened on that Normandy beach, that day, because little birds are talking at Bletchley and he's always had a good ear. There are hundreds, thousands of casualties. And not a single word from John, since then._

_Sherlock's not a praying man, he can only hope that John is busy taking care of his wounded men. It's the only explanation. It's the only explanation that will keep Sherlock sane, even though numbers aren't in his favor and that fact might just as well rip the heart he does not have right out of his bleeding chest. John needs to be alive. Please, please, somewhere out there, let him be alive._

_"I know he's alive, Mycroft. And I know you have the means to find him. I'm asking you for a favor."_

_If John cannot go to him, if Mycroft won't send the message, he'll go to John. It's that simple. He'll get the job done better and quicker than any of these government fools._

_Mycroft clicks his tongue and reclines on his seat. "Unlike what you're thinking, I do not actually have the power of omniscience over what is happening in Normandy."_

_"Then what's the use of you?"_

_Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I told you. Caring is not an advantage. You got too close and you got stung, Sherlock. Men do not return from the war."_

_"I am not asking for your opinion, Mycroft, I'm asking you for a favor."_

_A sigh. "You're running out of favors, brother mine."_

_He breathes in, and out. Steps up to Mycroft's desk, and slams both of his hands down. "I am winning your war, Mycroft. I am winning your war but it won't matter if he doesn't come back."_

*

Sherlock curls an arm around John. They have gone for a long while without any words, but now, the sky is greying towards dawn. Only a few hours away before the inevitable.

John rolls on his side and spreads a hand over Sherlock's chest.

"Do you think you can know a man after a single night?" John asks.

"I knew you the moment I saw you."

John huffs, amused. "Right. Deducing genius and all that."

"And all that."

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, and then two. It's evident that John wants to say more, that there is something on the tip of his tongue he does not dare to say. Afraid to break the quiet understanding between the two of them, as his leave draws near? Or is he careful not to show what Sherlock has come to feel, in fear that his feelings would not be returned?

"I play the violin," Sherlock says, eyes on the ceiling.

"That's… nice."

"Sometimes I don't talk for days."

"All right…?"

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John frowns. "Who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did."

A silence.

John clears his throat. "So, when I come back…?"

"If you want to."

"I'd like that. Yeah, I'd like that. Something to look forward to."

____________________

The music is unhelpful. It nurtures _sentiment_ , and he'd rather avoid it.

He works slowly, methodically, gathering stones and rotten wood to build the small fire pit. There shall be no evidence left behind. Whatever future John was talking about, it got stolen from them. This is not a funeral. It's a crime scene. The world is a murdered and there is no one to blame, no solution to expose. 

They won Mycroft's war. They won't the war but there's no point because John is not coming back. It's been three months, now. No sign of a body, no sign of a dog tag, but John is not coming back.

The last thing to do, then, is to burn the letters. The world shall not know. The world shall not know because it doesn't deserve them.

It takes a moment or two, but the fire raises at his feet, and he collects the letters from his satchel. He keeps his touch soft, anger melting into something unrecognizable. Caring is not an advantage.

He closes his eyes and thinks. He could open the letters, read them again, but why bother? He knows them by heart. He knows about the despair, the fatigue, and the love, the love that kept a soldier warm at night for years on end, the love that they built in the course of a single night six years ago. _Do you think about the future, sometimes?_

He did. Not in the way John meant — Sherlock doesn't care about the opinion of current or future society, because people are idiots and always will be. But he did think, during the early hours of the morning when his mind and spirit was weakened, that perhaps such future entailed John Watson and a jar of jam in the morning. A bit of violin, too.

He sneers at himself and unwraps the letters. He'll burn them one by one. He needs to suffer through this because he was too slow, too dumb, too late.

He picks the first letter of the bunch, the paper yellowed from the passing time and holds it above the fire. He tries not to listen to the music behind him, to the French voice singing in his back.

And then, between the flames, a silhouette.

"Sherlock?"

It's like a hallucination. The music, the darkness, the fire — he must have inhaled something, and it's gone to his head because this can't be. This can't be John Watson, standing in front of him, back from the dead. The numbers said so. The probabilities said so.

Yet John Watson is there, all in one piece amongst the ruins, a walking stick in his left hand, and there is nothing to understand.

"John?"

"Christ, Sherlock, is that you?" John's voice rasps.

It can't be. It can't. Sherlock crosses the stones, and then his hands are on John's shoulders, John's chest, John's arms— John John John John. Alive and under his touch.

"I've been coming here every night, I was hoping I'd—"

Whatever John was trying to say, he would have to wait, as Sherlock kisses him. Presses his lips to John's, again and again, mumbling his name — not like a prayer, but like one of those mathematical equations no one has solved yet. _John, John, John, John._

"—I'd started to lose hope and then I heard the music—"

"You were dead. You died in Normandy."

"I wasn't, Sherlock, I swear I wasn't. I was shot, and then I lost my dog tag and got an infection, I was barely conscious for days on end. And the moment I came back here, I tried to find a way… They wouldn't tell me who you were, at Bletchley, so my only hope was here—"

Sherlock hushes him, kisses him again. "Not now. You won the war."

There will be time for explanations later, and John chuckles, seemingly agreeing. "I wasn't alone."

No, he hadn't been.

"I'm sorry I can't dance with you," John says, as the words they heard on that first night repeat behind them, the music scratchy and slow.

His walking stick has fallen to the ground in the hurry and lies now abandoned in the ruins. "Of course you can," Sherlock whispers. "I'll show you."

He leans in, and whispers the words to John.

_When you press me to your heart_   
_I'm in a world apart_   
_A world where roses bloom_

They barely move, shifting weight from feet to feet, arms intertwined. To hell if anyone sees them. There's something to build in the middle of the ruins. They're standing there. Forehead to forehead, as the atoms quietly shift around them, for a world that wasn't the same yesterday. That won't be the same tomorrow. 

John looks up and licks his lips. "I remember you said something about flatmates?"

Just like that, there will be nights to love and mornings filled with jam and newspaper, and a bit of violin, too. 


End file.
